It is not the anger in your voice that scares me.
What is rage in the face of infatuation?
                    though I rage at myself

       But these are the things I fear:
          the silence in your whisper
          the heat of your skin

    It is not the arrogance of your smile that disgusts me.
What role does contempt play in lust?
                    though I feel contempt for myself

       But these are the things I loathe:
          your effortless charisma
          my effortless weakness

    It is not the shape of your fist that hurts me.
What can pain tell me that love has not?
                    though I am in agony

       But these things cause me sorrow:
          your absence
          your vanity

    It is not the contours of your face that bind me.
For what is flesh but a fleeting pleasure?
                   though it is akin to torture

       But these are the things I love:
          the line of your jaw
          the hair on your chest

       And these are the things I treasure:
          the evil in your eye
          the width of your wrist

       And these are the things I dream:
          the heat of your passion
          the ice in your heart

You are imperfect.